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Thursday, 18 September 2008


This is what I did yesterday:

I get up, empty the dishwasher, feed the kittens who are squealing and headbutting me, say "hello" to the Boy who stumbles into the kitchen, grumbling about his "so-called life", make him porridge, make his lunch, including a bar of chocolate from a packet, cunningly hidden in the salad crisper. ("He'll never look there" surmises the Husband, correctly. Actually - the Boy is terrible at covering his tracks. He took out a chair yesterday in order to reach the biscuits I'd placed on a high shelf. Except when he'd taken the biscuits he forgot to put the chair back. His life of crime would be very very short.) Anyway, the Girl pads downstairs, gleaming, chubby legged and tousled, demanding milk and saying that Joseph at reception class "won't be my friend." Can't deal with playground politics at this hour. Can't face changing the minging cat litter either, which I've left outside. Think twice and change it. Charlie Cat immediately sniffs it and has a massive poo while his sister, Lola Cat, watches intently. Lovely. Go upstairs, get The Girl dressed, while The Boy shouts "BYE!" and stumbles out the door, grumbling about some "'tard who teaches". Who?

Girl chatters away while I dress her. She loves school. Husband stumbles downstairs, stopping off to say hello, and I hear the sound of coffee being made. Feed the Girl. Then go upstairs, shower, dress, take the Girl to school. Come home and clear up. Get started on this new book am abridging for BBC7. Faceless Killers by Henning Mankel. Apparently he's the most successful writer in Sweden since Strindberg. And we all know what a laughter merchant Strindberg was. Book is difficult to abridge. It's about a morose Swedish copper who has a messy private life. I have to get it down from 81,000 words to 23000, which means a lot of plot cutting. Wonder why all coppers have to have dysfunctional private lives. This cop is called Kurt Wallander and he's a right old Swedish meatball of a mess. But Kenneth Branagh is both playing him on telly and reading this adaptation. Can see it. He has a vulnerable ordinariness.

Half-way through morning, Grazia mag rings. Would I like to be interviewed about whether I was the favorite child? "No, I wouldn't unless it could be anonymous". "We could take your picture from behind" suggests Megan oddly. What? "I'll check with the editor". Five minutes later she phones back. Apparently the editor wants emotional guts spilled all over the magazine, plus a photo. I was the Favoured Child and it Fucked me Up. Or My Mum Hated Me. Will I do it? "No chance". "Why?" "Because I don't want to upset my family". Megan seems slightly surprised at my objections. But considering the headlines in some of these mags like Take a Break (My husband raped my Twin Daughters but I forgave him and married him - My Baby was born with Three Heads - I'm 197 Stone and Looking for Love), I don't think they'll have too much trouble finding someone. People will spill their guts about anything these days.

Then I get an idea about an idea I've been nursing. A graphic novel. Filmed? Like Posy Simmonds. I fiddle about with it for a bit. Then I read The Corner (originally Cunts Corner - to which I occasionally contribute - good outlet for pointless rage btw) on HolyMoly which makes me choke with laughter. Sigh. Back to the morose Swedish detective. Feel like I've been leaping from project to project, not making headway on anything.

Pick up The Girl at school. "What did you do today?" Her reply is brisk:

"I drawed, I painted, I eated up my dinner and I ran away from a bumblebee."

Hmmm. I think she had a more productive day than me.

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